


Spiced up

by tenderly_wicked



Series: Dark!John [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Play, Anal Sex, BDSM, Figging, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Object Insertion, Slash, Smut, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-12
Updated: 2012-07-12
Packaged: 2017-11-09 20:23:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/457999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenderly_wicked/pseuds/tenderly_wicked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has got a cure for Sherlock’s boredom. Traditional but not commonly used nowadays.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spiced up

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [quarryquest](quarryquest.livejournal.com) and [lyrical_sky](http://archiveofourown.org/works/search?utf8=%E2%9C%93&query%5Btext%5D=lyrical_sky) for beta-ing!

When Sherlock is bored, it doesn’t really mean he has nothing to do. On the contrary, there are probably lots of things he could occupy himself with. But paying a visit to Tesco, for instance, or removing all the Petri dishes, stained cotton swabs and microscope slides from the kitchen table is clearly not a task worth leaving the sofa for. He’d rather lie there pining for the next case than condescend to dealing with such mundane matters.

Funny, this. John can make Sherlock give in to performing certain activities most would call perverse and humiliating, and consent to things no one would ever imagine him doing. John is able to turn this self-sufficient man into a needy mess, so sensitive to every touch, chest working hard with quivering breaths… Still, it’s almost impossible to force Sherlock to do something about the house. It’s usually John who does the shopping, the cleaning, the cooking. Well, it’s not too much trouble. John even enjoys all these household duties, he generally finds them to be relaxing. But it doesn’t mean Sherlock’s idleness should be left unpunished. He’s bored, is he? Time to do something about it.

When John arrives home with groceries, plastic bags in both hands, Sherlock is lying stretched out on the sofa, as expected, still wearing his favourite grey pyjamas. It appears as if he hasn’t moved at all since John went out.

“Looks like I’ve found a cure for your boredom,” John remarks in passing, setting the bait. “A natural stimulant, of a sort.”

John dumps the bags on the kitchen table (which he has cleaned up himself earlier this day, without even griping about its state), and it only takes seconds before Sherlock follows him. Sherlock glides into the kitchen and starts inspecting the bags just like a curious cat would do. John smiles at the faint rustling behind his back as he’s busy picking out kitchen utensils he might need. Oh, Sherlock, you’re so predictable sometimes.

Perching a hip on the table, Sherlock is absorbed in cataloguing the purchases, paying no attention to John until he suddenly gets a sharp smack of a wooden spoon against his hands. “Ow!”

“Who said you were allowed to pry?” John inquires, in an exceedingly amiable manner, which is always a dangerous sign. “Perhaps we need to do something to stop you from rushing things.”

“There’s nothing here anyway,” Sherlock scowls.

“What do you mean – nothing? Actually, these bags were quite heavy.”

“I mean – no stimulants.”

“Sherlock, it’s all right being ignorant in some fields of knowledge,” John chuckles. “I’ve got a treat for you that isn’t widely used nowadays. No wonder you don’t know it. But it’s very effective, I assure you. I was planning to put it to use later… but seeing as you’re so desperate… Pants down.”

Sherlock stares at him.

“You heard me,” John says. “This medicine is administered anally.”

Not sure what’s going on, Sherlock hesitantly pulls his pyjama pants down, steps out of them, and throws the crumpled cotton lump onto the nearest chair. Wearing nothing but his soft grey t-shirt, naked from the waist down, he looks even more obscene than if he were completely nude.

“Let’s make sure you stop meddling in what I’m about to do,” John suggests. “Bend over the table and hold on firmly to its sides. Be still and don’t distract me.”

John doesn’t hurry. He puts the groceries away, in the cupboards and the fridge, while Sherlock stays in position, fidgeting and waiting for him to begin. The last item John takes from the bags before getting rid of them is an oblong ginger root, a little smaller than a fist, with several round, thick fingers extending from it.

One more thing John needs for his experiment is a sharp kitchen knife. He sits down at the table in front of Sherlock and, ignoring him temporarily, cuts a finger from the root, carving into the heart of it, so that the stick is long enough for his purposes, no smaller than four inches. Then he takes a vegetable peeler and starts removing the tough brown skin, meticulously cutting off all the bumps and knots as well, rising up from time to time to rinse the finger under cold water. The ginger aroma spreading around the kitchen is delicious.

“Here’s some data for you,” John tells Sherlock as he works on the finger with surgical precision. “It’s called figging, this technique. The word “feague” is used figuratively for encouraging or spiriting one up – but it comes from a real practice… with historical roots, so to speak. Developed during Victorian times, or even earlier. They put ginger up a horse’s fundament to make him lively, then they started using it on men and women too, for stimulation. No need to explain in detail how it works. Knowing you, I imagine you’d prefer to gather the rest of the data by experiencing the effects yourself.”

The fibrous finger is still thick, larger around than a thumb but smooth, and rounded at the end. It’s beginning to resemble a butt plug, and in fact, this is exactly what it’s going to be. Using the paring knife, John carves a shallow groove near the base of the finger. This will be holding the root in place when it’s inserted. Once the improvised plug is finished being whittled down into an appropriate size and shape, John rinses it off under running cold water again – and he’s ready to begin.

“Lube?” Sherlock reminds him helpfully, trying to look across his shoulder, impatient see what John is now doing behind him.

“No, not this time.” John pushes Sherlock’s head down to the table, so that his cheek is now pressed flat to its surface. “Spread your legs and be still.”

The root is wet and slippery enough to work fine without lubricant, and adding lube will only act as a sealant and prevent the ginger oil from releasing and doing its job. But John’s not intending to explain this because Sherlock looks so touchingly, adorably vulnerable when he’s tense with apprehension. John eases his thighs apart, gently fondles the cleft of his arse until Sherlock relaxes a bit. Then, John starts slowly working the ginger plug into him, the round end nudging against the winking hole until the tight ring gives way and opens up to accept the intrusion. John presses the ginger further, slides it in – and finally the sphincter closes around the concavity he has carved.

By now, Sherlock is panting a little, and his cock gives a twitch when John reaches between his legs to check it, just out of curiosity.

“Hold this position,” John orders. “It takes a little while for the effects to take place.”

There’s enough time to wash the dishes while Sherlock waits for the results, temporarily abandoned. The effects will build up slowly. First, Sherlock will begin to feel a strange sense of warmth. It will steadily increase over the next several minutes, becoming more and more intense… John closes the taps and looks back just in time to see Sherlock reach behind himself to touch the ginger plug.

“What are you doing?” John enquires, his voice suddenly cold and menacing. He dries his hands with a towel and tosses it away.

“It tingles,” Sherlock starts to explain, hastily, but John interrupts him, “That’s how it’s supposed to be, Sherlock. I told you to be still, I told you to wait. And what are you doing instead? You don’t trust my prescription. You question my orders. This is not acceptable behavior. Not acceptable at all. You know that.”

John walks round the table, so that Sherlock can’t see him anymore. But he can hear the metal click of John’s unclasped buckle, the rustle of his belt pulled through the loops. Suddenly John yanks Sherlock’s arms behind his back and binds his hands together with the belt. That’s much better. Sherlock’s ankles remain free. If he is going to kick and wriggle a bit, that’s more fun.

“It’s the stimulation I was talking about,” John finally deigns to explain. “The ginger oils create a warming, then a burning sensation. Gradually. That’s what made the horses hold their tails up. Behave lively during public ceremonies. With such suppositories lodged up their fundaments, they hardly had a choice. Ginger works the same way with bored people who need artificial stimulants, like you do. Wakes them up when administered the right way. I was going to start slow with this medicine,” he sighs, “but you are forcing me to make your boredom treatment more intense. I see that you really need it, Sherlock. Boredom makes you misbehave. Makes you impatient, unbalanced. But I promise you, by the time we finish the first session, you’ll be achingly willing to be good and compliant, at least for a while. Now, then. Let’s intensify your perception. The tingling should become much stronger if the recipient squeezes down around the ginger plug. Like this.”

John pinches Sherlock’s buttocks together and holds them for a minute or two. This certainly causes a boost in burning sensation, for Sherlock soon starts writhing in John’s hands, choking down barely audible whimpers.

“You see, it’s very distracting,” John tells him. “Works perfectly against your boredom. Besides, the absorption of the ginger creates a mild narcotic effect, lessens aggression, which could be good for you too.”

Sherlock stifles another moan, and John has a thought that perhaps it might be better to use a gag – a universal mute button – before proceeding. In a little while, Sherlock won’t be able to suppress his reactions so well, and they don’t want to scare Mrs Hudson, do they? But John is reluctant to leave Sherlock alone now, even though finding a proper gag in the bedroom would only take a few minutes. He peels off his jumper (which won’t do, since it’s woolen) and then his t-shirt. Twists and rolls it until it becomes a thick rope, then forces the improvised gag into Sherlock’s mouth, between his teeth (a noise of protest escapes Sherlock’s throat – but he doesn’t struggle much), and firmly ties its ends at his nape. Not really aesthetic, but it will do for now.

“All right. Let’s combine figging with another practice meant for disobedient persons. Ginger plugs were widely used for punishment, too, haven’t I mentioned that? When you get a smack up your arse, you tend to tighten your buttocks. You also tense up, anticipating the next blow. But when you do, the ginger root creates a very, very sharp burning. The heat increases when you clench. And it won’t go away until you relax. Think of it as a sort of exercise, just like yoga – you should learn to loosen up. You’re too tense, you get unhinged when you’re bored. That’s not good. Now, we need an implement for our purposes. The Victorians would use a crop, but I guess you’re a little bit tired of it. We’ll pick something else.”

Out of Sherlock’s view, John opens the kitchen drawer and takes a look through the collection of cooking utensils, hesitating over which one to chose. The flared pancake spatula? Its thin leading edge can cut into the flesh just fine. Or this one, slightly curved? Or the straining spoon, with a round hole in the middle? John enjoys cooking, so he’s got a variety of kitchen tools. And as it turns out, they can serve multiple purposes.

Finally, John finds the implement he had in mind from the start. This wooden, long handled spatula with slotted holes will probably get Sherlock’s attention best. It’s meant for sauces, but it will be good for a naughty arse too.

John takes an experimental full swing through the air. The handle feels good in his palm, very comfortable. Perfect, then. Let’s get started.

The broad flat blade lands with a thud, and Sherlock gasps through the gag, caught unprepared. His buttocks clench instinctively – and no doubt it is increasing the sting of the ginger inside him. Oh yes. John can tell by the way Sherlock’s hips twitch. John lays the spatula aside, cups Sherlock’s buttocks and feels him trying to force his muscles to loosen. “You can do better,” John assures him. “Let’s try again.”

The next stroke extracts a muffled cry from Sherlock’s lungs. Again, John patiently waits for him to relax. And when Sherlock does, he delivers another swat.

As always, he’s very methodical and diligent in what he’s doing. He smacks each buttock, alternating sides, until matching marks appear on the creamy white flesh – pink at first, and then they become darker and more red. With every blow, no matter how hard Sherlock tries not to move, the plug inside him shifts. Some of the strokes catch against the end of the ginger, pushing it in deeper. The clenching hurts, so Sherlock does his best to follow John’s advice and relax, but that only increases the rush of pain from the next blow – not tightening up means that the smack itself is more intense. Soon Sherlock is whining steadily through the gag, squirming uncontrollably, unable to choose which pain he wants to avoid more.

After a fast set of swats, John stops and rubs the flat spatula blade against the reddened skin almost gently, for a change. Sherlock’s breathing is rapid, face still contorted. But he’s slowly calming down… John can’t resist the appeal to tug at the ginger and unhurriedly move it in and out a few times. “Not bored anymore?” He presses the plug home, deliberately pushing it in hard. Surely, Sherlock didn’t think it was the end of their session? Now John’s hand has had enough rest to continue.

He stops after a few more thwacks, though – Sherlock’s quiet whimpering turns into desperate sobs, the low sound mostly blocked by the gag. His legs buckle, and he’s starting to hyperventilate. Enough. It’s enough.

John puts away the spatula and takes a quick look at his handiwork. Sherlock is beautiful like this. Completely undone and panicking. Waiting for more. His paddled butt cheeks are now purple, and when John gently traces the marks with asserting, delicate fingers, Sherlock only jerks helplessly, unsure if this caress is a prelude to another round of spanking. John leans closer. Sherlock’s eyes are watering. He blinks and tries to turn his face away, to hide the tears he’s unable to control. “Shh, shh,” John whispers into his curls, and it sounds like he’s sing-songing the first letters of Sherlock’s name. “Nothing to be ashamed of… It’s almost over…”

The effects of the ginger are short-lived, they last for approximately fifteen minutes, so John decides it’s probably time to dispose of the plug – before the burning fades on its own.

“I’m taking the ginger out now,” John announces, and Sherlock is so well past the ability of coherent thinking that if he weren’t gagged, he would have probably sobbed out “thank you”, his voice cracked and broken. He almost never says “thank you” of his free will (and really meaning it) – to anyone but John.

After the plug has been removed and thrown into the rubbish bin, John hastily washes his hands and then returns to Sherlock. Unties the gag and takes it out too. Wipes the tears from Sherlock’s cheeks. “Will you be a good boy and stay in place if I release you?” Sherlock makes a choked sound that John decides to interpret as a “yes”. The belt comes off next, and John spends several minutes massaging Sherlock’s shoulders and arms that must have gone numb. He’s glad that Sherlock makes no attempts to straighten up, just like he’s been told. Sherlock’s body is arching under the gentle touches, especially when John’s hands move lower, to the small of his back, and slide under his t-shirt.

John slowly trails his hand down Sherlock’s spine, all the way to his entrance, circles a finger around the over-sensitized twitching hole, “Do you still feel warmth in there?”

This time, Sherlock manages to answer “yes” quite audibly, if hoarsely. This warmth will remain for a quarter of an hour or more, especially if there’s going to be a lot of moving around. John isn’t sure whether he’ll be feeling the same tingling on his cock if he barebacks Sherlock right now. Sherlock’s arse is presented for further treatment so submissively that it’s hard to suppress the urge to do it, but John’s not willing to risk the odds, no matter how badly he wants to shove himself in, as far as he can go. He’ll use a condom. So good he has thought of it in advance. There’s a newly bought pack within reach.

Pressing himself against Sherlock’s raw buttocks so that Sherlock would feel his erection through the rough denim of his jeans, John rips open the package and decides that he can wait a minute more. He brings the condom – unflavoured and unlubed – to Sherlock’s lips. “Make it wet first.” Hesitantly, Sherlock opens his mouth – and John shoves the ring of latex into it. “Do the best you can,” he warns. “That’s all the lubrication you’re getting. Your saliva will soothe you a bit. I don’t want you to feel any discomfort, after all.” Sherlock definitely gets the idea and starts to lick and lave the condom, vigorously and messily, looking incredibly depraved.

Meanwhile, John reaches down and runs a hand over his heavy cock, squeezes it slightly and elicits a predictable response. Sherlock moans, the condom still in his mouth. Not clenching denied him the possibility of ejaculation during the spanking, so he’s desperate now for more friction. Poor thing. It’s a doctor’s duty to bring him out of his pitiful state.

John pulls Sherlock up, arranging him so that he’s supporting himself, elbows against the table. Then takes the well soaked condom (“Spit it out. Good.”) and applies it for the purpose intended, his hands almost shaking with impatience – he’s been waiting for so long. Pinning Sherlock by the hips, he breaches the sensitive wrinkled pucker so brutally fast that Sherlock makes a low sound deep in his throat. The heat, the closeness, the power drive John mad – he’s finally humping into Sherlock’s body, balls slapping against bare skin, one arm wrapped around Sherlock’s chest, the other hand roughly working on his penis. Perfect. Perfect. The old kitchen table under them is wobbling and squeaking in protest – but it has seen worse, it will survive. At least, this time.

Both emptied and panting, they stay joined for a while. Sherlock likes it – to feel that John is still inside him after the climax.

“How about I cook a nice supper for us?” John mutters, sprawled against Sherlock’s back. “You’ll sit here in the kitchen and wait for it. No fidgeting. No complaints. And if you eat your share like good boys do, I’ll be kind enough to take you to bed. Maybe I’ll even let you lie on your stomach.”

He probably will because Sherlock looks gorgeous – and defenseless at the same time – when he’s lying face down naked on their bed, legs slightly spread. So available, which always sends a splash of feral desire straight to John’s groin. So trusting, which sometimes makes John feel a knot tightening in his chest, for no reason.

What if one day John won’t have him here? What if Sherlock gets bored of what John is to suggest him? What if… something happens?

John wonders if Sherlock knows how much this possibility – of losing what he’s got now – scares him. But then – of course he knows. It’s Sherlock, after all…

He shakes these morose thoughts away. Nothing’s going to happen. He’s in control here. Right?

He pulls out, helps Sherlock to straighten up, and plants a quick kiss to his neck. “Come on, then. Sit down, on this chair, so that I can see you while I’m cooking. I’ll get our supper ready in twenty minutes. No, no, don’t put on your pants. No need for that.”

The filled condom joins the ginger plug in the rubbish bin, and John gives Sherlock a handful of kitchen towels so that he can clean himself up. Sherlock won’t be bored while waiting – sitting on his paddled bottom will be a distraction in itself, in addition to contemplating John’s masterly manipulations with food and spices.

John is planning to cook a home-made Chinese meal, instead of their usual take-away – minced chicken breasts and a mix of vegetables, all stir-fried in a wok, and seasoned with pepper, herbs and soy sauce. Perhaps it will be a nice touch to add some ginger, just a few slices to spice up the dish. The rest of the root will be sealed in a plastic bag and refrigerated for three or four days. It’ll be much more potent then, and during the next session the sensation will be significantly stronger. John is rather looking forward to it. He grins secretly as he wraps up the root and places it in the veggie bin in the fridge. He never promised that Sherlock’s cure for boredom was a one-time treatment that would give permanent results. It’s a medicine that should be taken as a course.

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on [Tumblr](https://tenderlywicked.tumblr.com) maybe?


End file.
